


Hux Invictus

by SinNotAlone



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Branding, Dissociation, Fucked up power dynamic, M/M, Minor Character Death, Public Humiliation, Sadism, collaring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7801873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinNotAlone/pseuds/SinNotAlone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The coronation of Hux. The subjugation of Ren. This is not so nice. Please heed the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hux Invictus

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [@artyaourter](http://artyaourter.tumblr.com/) for always being so helpful.

The hinges release a rusty shriek, and the door swings open. With it comes air pungently fresh, filled with an early morning breeze carrying salt and iron. It proves an arresting contrast to the air that hangs heavy within those four walls. When he'd first entered the room, Kylo had noticed a slight putrid scent, like the stone floor was laid atop moldering decay. It had lasted only a few hours, before he acclimated, no longer able to sense the oddities of his surroundings. Now, it’s the outside world that assaults his senses.

Kylo isn’t sure how long it’s been since he’s seen the face of another human. There’s no chrono provided among the sparse furnishing, no window by which to track the heavens. He’s taken to drowsing excessively to pass the time, unaware how much of the day slips between sleep and waking. A pair of jaundiced eyes appear at what he believes to be regular intervals, to gaze at him through a little slot in the door. The service droids have refreshed his quarters at least a dozen times.

He catches sight of a bland face as it rushes through the doorway. The face belongs to a middle-aged woman, compact and economic in her gait. She doesn’t bother to acknowledged his presence, and a jab of yearning clenches deep in Kylo’s chest. She strides with intention into the dim chamber, the subdued aubergine train of her cloak billowing behind her. Kylo takes a hurried breath, one meant to precede a salutation, but all that results is an aborted rasp.

A porter follows closely behind the woman, his long legs matching her quick feet. He carries a large trunk, balanced atop one broad shoulder. He handles its bulk with ease, placing it neatly in the middle of the slate floor, before turning to leave. The scrape of metal followed by a loud clang indicates that the door latch has fallen back into place.

The trunk is carved with a rich relief of flora; vines and petals chase each other to meet at a whorl in the center of the lid. A dark lacquer coats the wood, making it shine, even in the low light of the room. The woman pushes open the lid and begins rifling through the contents. Careful consideration is etched on her face, her lips pursed and brow lined. She holds each piece of fabric aloft, setting a select few aside. As the contents of the trunk are stirred, a musky scent wafts toward Kylo. He shifts forward, propped upon his elbows on a low divan, intrigued by the growing pile of garments.

Once she's combed her way through a dozen iridescent shades of cream, her attention finally turns toward Kylo. Her words are measured, as if she were reading from a script.

“I’ve come to prepare you for the ceremony,” she explains, gathering the garments into her arms. Her steps are a small but neat glide as she nears Kylo. She smooths each item onto the table top before him with efficient elegance. Kylo wonders how long it took to bend all her natural movement into the demure performance she excels at. 

“If you would be so kind as to stand.”

Her mask of indifference slips for a moment when Kylo unfurls long limbs to stretch to his full height, bare, before her. The temperature of the room is such that Kylo had almost forgotten his perpetual state of undress, until he sees the flash of embarrassment in her shifting eyes.

It's a brief lapse, and her voice remains fluid as she gestures to the garments and states, “The most suitable items for an individual of your stature.”

There is little difference at first glance between the three tunics presented—a slightly longer or shorter hem, although none will fall far below the top of his thighs. Each is made of a diaphanous material that's designed to reveal as much as it covers. One has a fine gold thread couched in rippling wave patterns around the collar. Another is intricately smocked, leading to a more voluminous silhouette. The third is decorated with tiny glass beads, clustered at the hem.

Kylo reaches for the first option. It weighs almost nothing, and it appears to float in his grasp as he brings it over his head. The cloth slides like cool water against his skin, and the infused smell of distant caravans lingers in the fabric. He looks down to see the peaks of his nipples and the trail of hair on his abdomen faintly visible beneath the loose fabric. No twisting or tugging will increase the meager coverage provided, though he smooths the hem nonetheless.

The woman pulls one of the slender chairs out from the table and gestures toward it. “Very good, please be seated.” She retrieves a comb and a set of golden hair pins from the recesses of her cloak, setting the supplies on the table. Each pin is set with onyx, inky black crescents within a ring of gold, like the eyes of a serpent.

Kylo sits and allows his hair to be arranged. It’s grown longer and unkempt, now fully brushing his shoulders. In her deft fingers, the tangles are smoothed while his head is tugged in every direction. An electric tingle crawls across Kylo’s scalp. She sections the hair at the top and pulls the strands tight to weave them together. The position forces Kylo’s neck into an arch, but he doesn’t mind the twinge of discomfort. Pleasure or pain, any touch is a balm to his skin.

She steps back to considers her work. At the sudden lack of contact, the heaviness that briefly lifted returns. One final drop of warmth scurries down Kylo’s spine when she reorients an errant pin, but all too quickly, Kylo finds himself being beckoned to rise and follow her to the door. 

Her compact fist raps three times on the scarred wood of the door. An instant later, the painful screech of metal precedes a shudder as the door is drawn open. The porter makes no comment and casts his eyes to the wall ahead, though Kylo can feel little waves of fear flickering forth. His hand does not stray to the blaster holstered at his hip, instead he shuffles aside, pressing his back against the wall to let them pass down the narrow hallway.

The hallway opens onto a crumbling colonnade that connects the complex of living quarters to the tower. At the precipice to the outside world, Kylo hesitates. The bright daylight invades his eyes, and tears threaten to overflow. He chokes back the hot salt air, and the woman presses, “After you.” Her voice is mild, like that of a patient mother encouraging a reluctant child.

They pick their way across uneven flagstones in an impromptu game of hop-scotch. The woman stays beside Kylo, matching his pace whether he stumbles or strides. The jagged stone edges bite at his soles; his once hardened skin has worn soft in a way he hasn’t known since before he became a padawan.

Kylo can smell it again, when they near the base of the tower and the breeze shifts. That sour stench. Tendrils waft from out east, beyond the towering walls of the fortress. It’s finally snuffed by the heavy incense permeating the air within the tower walls. Where the two scents meet is a truly putrid battleground that tightens the back of Kylo’s throat.

At least back in near darkness, he can see once more. He scrubs the salty tear tracks with his knuckles and blinks bleary eyes. The room is far smaller than he anticipated—an antechamber, cramped with a set of benches. A lattice made of split reeds screens the room from the main entranceway.

“You are to wait here.” She gestures to the further of the two benches, tucked back under the sloped ceiling. It is a cramped fit, as Kylo crowds himself into the corner. When the door to the outside world shuts once more, the only light left is pinpricks making their way through the screen. They dapple the stone floor, growing longer before they disappear at Kylo’s feet.

Little skitters of unseen creatures echo in the silence of the cavernous complex. Somewhere, a trickle of water drips, patiently eroding the strength of stone. Kylo strains, but no human voices are present amongst the low din. The bulk of the party must still be encamped outside the fortress. He shifts to rest his back against the wall, the cool pressure a reassurance, and draws his knees to his chest. To wait. To wait until it’s time to pays obeisance, whatever form it takes.

* * *

For when the moment had come, to strike Snoke down, Kylo had fumbled, had faltered.

It had been months of planning, the forming of secret alliances, the subtle undermining authority. Planting seeds of dissent as Hux bided his time, playing the dutiful general, dedicated in life and death to the mission of the First Order. Yet tirelessly he had worked to persuade others, some with logic, some with fear. He had addressed every possible contingency, constructed a coup to be studied by strategians for millennia to come.

Snoke had trusted too deeply in his control over Kylo, and via Kylo, in his control over the knights. Hux had always reminded Kylo that trust was a weakness one could ill afford in times of war.

In the final maelstrom of violence, Kylo had stood as if frozen in carbonite over Snoke’s incapacitated body. In his years of training, Kylo had learned from Snoke’s own hand the methods necessary to bring upon his doom. Kylo felt the stifling weight of his betrayal and Snoke’s regret, though Snoke’s grizzled visage was incapable of displaying emotion. He was drowning in the force, blind and senseless, deaf to Hux’s shouts from his point of command. The frantic flicker of his lightsaber, held not at the ready but dangling from a limp hand, was the only indicator that time indeed moved forward. It was not until a blaster bolt whizzed by his ear that the spell was broken. He dropped his saber. Dropped to his knees. 

The bolt entered Snoke’s left eye socket with a sickening sizzle, annihilating the fleshy orb as it burrowed its way into Snoke’s skull. His body convulsed and a choked gurgle flowed into a final drawn out wheeze. The twitch of his fingers slowed until his body was finally still. Black blood pooled in the scorched pit, overflowing, dripping across his face. Though it was a face already ruined long ago by rapacity for knowledge.

Kylo waited on his knees, staring at the lifeless body of his former master. Raw emptiness and relief simultaneously flooded the space of his consciousness that Snoke had once occupied.

Troopers approached, and a booted foot kicked Snoke’s corpse once, twice, harder now, causing the pit to ooze fresh. There was no response from either force user.

The troopers’ anonymous gauntlets hoisted Kylo up, half dragged, half led him to what he’s grown to accept as his cell. Hux briefly visited him after he was installed. He informed Kylo that Snoke’s body had been thrown from the ramparts to rot outside the walls. It was but one drop in the sea of corpses felled that day. Kylo and his knights had played the vanguard, enabling Hux’s entry with a squadron of stormtroopers. Though Kylo’s saber had ended dozens of lives at Hux's behest, it was not nearly enough to make amends.

Kylo anticipated Hux’s return every time a servant or droid knocked prior to entry. His cell was not bereft of comforts, it was kept clean, and he was fed, bathed. Datapads and a dejarik table provided meager diversion. The tedium wore, and Kylo wore the skin from his fingertips, biting and picking as he lay in the dull heat.

He used the opportunity to meditate, focused on mending the gash that Snoke’s death had rendered within the force. He tried to process his failure, willing Hux to forgive him. Even in stillness he could not find peace. Most of his meditation sessions were abandoned with no progress made, leaving him increasingly agitated. Then he would pace the tiny circuit of his room, his mind wandering, frantically.

At the time of Hux’s next visit, Kylo was seated, knees spread flat against the rush mats that covered the alcove. The small niche in the wall provided comfort in a way that the nearly empty room did not. His attention was focused on streams of the force, flowing between his fingers. He didn’t stir when he heard the scrape of the door, though he hazarded a casual glance at the quiet cough for attention. As soon as Kylo became aware of Hux’s appearance, he jerked to attention, rising to meet him. Hux instructed Kylo to stay where he was and crossed the room, penned him inside the alcove instead. Kylo tried to focus his bubbling energy to stillness, quashing the pleas threatening to spill from his lips.

Hux’s cool, dry palm cupped Kylo’s cheek. On the cuff of Hux’s jacket, the four stripes now bordered a ring of stars, embroidered in gold thread.

“You’re a disappointment.” Hux’s voice matched the soft caress of his hand. It was a statement Hux did not need to make, though the weight of it verbalized made Kylo shrink back from the touch.

“Too weak to prove your loyalty when it mattered the most.” Hux continued, his eyes soft, but his mouth firm.

“What am I to do with you Kylo?” Hux quirked his head to the side, like he was anticipating a response. Kylo stayed silent. He knew his position as master of the Knights of Ren was essential, and if Hux wanted him dead or gone, why allow him to linger in solitude? Hux needed Kylo’s clout, to parade for ceremonial purposes at least.

“How will you prove yourself to me?” The tender fingers wound their way into the tangles of Kylo’s hair, a few unfortunate strands pulled painfully tighter than the rest. Hux lifted Kylo’s gaze to meet his own eyes, narrow in their discernment. Hux needed only the symbolic part of Kylo, but Kylo, Kylo needed every part of Hux—the warmth of his hands, the approval in his voice. Kylo Ren was a hungry thing, formed under Snoke’s guidance, bred to follow. Under Hux’s influence, Kylo had traded one supreme leader for another. Without the support of a greater man, he would crumble.

“You may speak.” Kylo’s position was balanced on the edge of a blade. Too obsequious and he risked disgusting Hux with further weakness, too detached and he would seem disingenuous. Either way, Hux would prolong the lesson he was slowly teaching. Hux didn’t need Kylo.

Kylo settled for one word. “Anything.”

Anything to be deemed worthy of this touch again. Anything to have this confinement ended. Sitting alone with his thoughts for days, weeks, he didn’t know how long. Thinking of Hux, thinking of Snoke and how he’d end him a thousand times if he had another chance to prove himself.

“A visible sign of your allegiance is necessary.” Hux tightened his grip, digging the edge of a thumbnail into Kylo’s scalp.

Kylo’s pulse pounded in his ears. He didn’t care how much it hurt, if it stopped this. The heavy feeling infecting his innards, growing since Snoke’s fall, spreading like poison throughout his body.

“Anything to be yours.”

“You already promised yourself to me.” Hux pulled back his arm, dragging Kylo along until he was balanced on his shins.

“Anything,” Kylo repeated, the burn of the rush mat hot against his skin.

“In time.” Hux released Kylo, letting him sag back to the floor. A few tightly wound hairs came away with his fingers. Hux looked at Kylo with pity, a look suitable for an animal that must be broken before it can be of use, and turned to leave the cell. Kylo relaxed back into his meditative stance, starting his count anew. He’d lose track before Hux decided the time was right.

* * *

With his ear pressed against the stone wall, Kylo can hear the boom of the portcullis being drawn up, the gnashing of gears and the grunts of the operator. It’s followed by the rhythmic approach of marching steps. When the officers’ boots hit the inlaid stonework of the entrance way, the whole building vibrates with their energy. An avalanche of voices crests with a chant, “Invictus.”

Kylo rises, creeps forward to peer through the tiny gaps in the screen. It’s a blur of black uniforms, red sigils, bits of boots, gloves, and banners. He can’t make out faces, but he thinks he can hear Phasma’s clear voice, bellowing above the rest, “Invictus.” 

Nearing, closing in, is a fanfare played on brass. It stops short of Kylo’s viewpoint, slows to a stately crescendo, before falling silent. A flash of pure white appears, and the chant rises to a frenzy, losing form, “Invictus.”

The door creaks open behind him, and Kylo whips around, senses tuned to perceive even the slightest disturbance. It’s the woman again, pressing her hand against the jamb to silence the door as she shuts it. She joins Kylo at the screen and draws it open. Kylo can see the flutter of the white mantle, trailing from the shoulders of a man whose hair gleams, molten copper.

“Follow, but not too close,” she whispers, giving Kylo a patient push.

Kylo isn’t there, walking those steps behind Hux. His peripheral vision goes blurry, he doesn’t see the faces leering. His feels his feet move, he doesn’t stumble, but the floor is so far beneath him. The warm salt air prickles his exposed skin, and his fingernails are needles in his palms. The points of pain ground him, and he stops when Hux stops, before the ascent to the throne.

He stands, frozen once more, as Hux climbs the steps to the platform and turns to survey the hall. His face does not beam with the radiance of the victor; it is somber, brow weighing, creasing his eyes. His gloved hands unclench to steady himself, as he takes his seat on the throne. It’s not a proper throne, just a camp stool set upon a dais, but Hux looks as regal as the monarch of Naboo.

Kylo regains his awareness of time when an official approaches, carrying a metal circlet on a bed of crimson cloth. He motions for Kylo to step aside, pointing back behind the dais. Kylo lurches to the indicated spot, suddenly cognizant of the sets of eyes boring through the flimsy fabric that so inadequately covers him. His throat begins to burn, and breaths make it halfway in before they end with a gasp. The incense hanging the air becomes a noxious gas. Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, he hears the pronouncement of Imperator Hux. Raucous cheers follow. Feet stomp and hands clap. They meld with the blood that roars in Kylo’s ears.

The crowd filters down the aisle, back toward the open doors, but Hux does not lead the procession. Instead, he rounds the dais to meet Kylo. The circlet is perched across his temples in a way that seems to add weight to his already beleaguered brow. It doesn’t suit him, and he must know. He wears it only briefly before he takes it in hand.  

Hux passes Kylo, keeps walking. Kylo follows, a few paces behind. They wend their way down a narrow corridor and into the living quarters that adjoin the audience hall. Kylo has never been this far into the complex, but he's not surprised to see intricate mosaics beneath the spartan furnishings. The fortress existed long before Snoke took it for his own. How many warlords have rested, ill at ease, in the confines of this room?

Hux stops before the fire, unnecessary this time of year, but lit nonetheless. The white of his uniform glows like moonlight in the flames, not with its own luminance, but with light reflected from a greater source. Finally, he speaks, “Before me, Kylo,” and points to the tile adjacent the hearth.

The floor is hot against his bare feet, hotter against his tender shins, as he kneels in front of Hux. A thousand pleas press on his tongue, nearly bursting forth. The urge to grovel, to kiss the hem of that fine cloak, is so strong he nearly succumbs. But Hux would sneer at his lack of control, so Kylo will show patience, and Kylo will be rewarded. In time.

The circlet is still in Hux’s grasp, and he fiddles with it, as if assessing its quality. It is thin and grey and doesn’t look fit to be the crown of an emperor. Hux picks a slender awl from the mantle, and carefully, craning toward the light of the fire, works it into the circlet. Once engaged, the awl slips easily into place, and a pin falls to roll toward the hearth. Kylo snatches it, to proffer with raised hands and lowered eyes. Hux applies the same treatment to the pin on the other side, this time catching the little metal rod before it drops. He places it with its twin, in Kylo’s waiting hands.

Hux gathers Kylo’s hair from his shoulders. The touch lingers, soft pads of his thumbs playing against the nape of Kylo’s neck, circling and soothing in their stroke. Kylo relaxes until he feels the resistance of his tether. “Hold it for me,” Hux requests.

With his empty hand, Kylo takes Hux’s place, bundling his hair out of the way. It’s a tiresome position to maintain, and his outstretched arms stutter though he wills them otherwise.

Hux fits the two halves of the circlet comfortably around Kylo’s neck. He crouches and grapples with the tiny pins, tapping lightly with the end of the awl to fit them back into their homes. There is a hunger in Hux’s eyes, as he skirts his finger along the circlet. The metal is warm from Hux’s hands, strangely electric against Kylo’s throat. He releases his hair, and it tickles the sensitized skin of his neck. He moves his head, testing the way the circlet bites into his trachea as he twists to the side.

“Not all may know this,” Hux says, patting the collar.

He stands, moves to stir the fire with a poker. It spits and crackles, angry to be roused. Little sparks fly like shooting stars, singeing the delicate fabric of Kylo’s tunic, stinging the exposed skin of his forearms. After some indiscernible goal is achieved through his ministrations, Hux takes the handle of another tool, buried within the pile of ash and wood.

“But they will know this.” The white leather of his gloves has blackened with soot. He draws forth the hexagonal iron, careful to avoid scorching himself.

“Still, Kylo.”

Kylo freezes, and this time, it is right. When the glowing red metal nears his face, he closes his eyes. He can feel the heat before it reaches the left side of his face, the side that escaped the scavenger’s blow. Hux places a steadying hand on the back of Kylo’s head and presses the iron into that pristine skin.

There's a brief pause of absolute nothingness before every cell in Kylo’s body tells him to rip the brand form Hux’s hand, to flee. His lips part in an unvoiced scream. He shakes with exertion, tremors driving a rivulet of sweat down the small of his back. He's been on both sides of a burning saber, but it was never like this. Then, he had adrenaline and instinct to preserve him. Now, he stares down at his own ruin, somewhere on the outskirts of his body. The scent of his charred flesh overwhelms him. He tries not the retch. Hux’s hand is the only anchor keeping him upright.

An eternity stretches before Hux peels back the iron. The air that hits the brand is frozen, and Kylo finally buckles under the inescapable nausea. Hux catches him by the shoulders and lowers him to the ground. He lays him on his side, good cheek flaming against the hot tile. The tunic is stuck to his damp skin, bunched around his hips, and his exposed thighs are frigid, quivering despite his proximity to the fire. Hux murmurs, “Hold with me. You’ve done so well,” before disappearing momentarily. 

Kylo draws himself up tight, into the smallest space he’s capable of occupying, a ball of clenched fists and toes. The quiet tread of Hux’s boots marks his return, along with a pile of dressings deposited before Kylo’s eyes. Hux lowers himself to the floor and inches close enough to touch. Nimble fingers cradle Kylo’s head and hover over the burn. A cool jelly does the little it can to sooth his skin. It lacks the slightly sour smell of bacta, though it’s of a similar consistency.

The wide bandage wraps around and around, protecting the open sore. It sticks easily to the applied substance, though Hux makes sure to tuck in the edges and smooth the length that runs across Kylo’s nose. It smothers him, blocking his nasal passages and impeding his vision. The breaths drawn in through his mouth are shallow to avoid disturbing his excruciating cheek.  

Hux locks his forearms around Kylo’s ribcage, steadying his slack limbs as he draws him to his feet. They shuffle the few yards to low platform that serves as a bed. Hux releases his hold and sits, encourages Kylo to collapse onto him with the press of his hand to the back of a knee. He orients them along the platform, and his wiry body spreads over Kylo, circling him in a snare.

“Rest,” Hux says, and the lassitude in his voice hints that it is as much to himself as to Kylo.

Kylo awakens to the sensation of flames licking at his cheekbone, the sting so pronounced he bolts upright before he can process a thought. He feels stiff cloth swathing his face and pulls at it, amidst the hazy dawning of rationality. The bandage is caked stiff with fluid, and Kylo’s attempts to remove the unfamiliar material and relieve his pain only makes it worse. A wet gasp of frustrating escapes his lips. He can’t stanch the tears welling in his eyes.

The tussle rouses Hux, and he saddles up behind Kylo, knees spread on either side of his hips.

“Hush,” Hux whispers as he wipes the overflowing tears with his forefinger. His lips brush against the bandage. “You need your dressing changed,” he says, matter of fact, before rising to retrieve the necessary supplies—a basin of water, a sponge, and endless yards of white gauze.

Kylo sets his jaw as Hux unravels the dirtied bandage. With it comes the protective layer that had formed over the brand. Kylo’s breath is lodged somewhere deep in his chest, only to be released in a gush when the bandage finally pulls free. Hux wets the sponge, and wrings it, once, and then again, until it's damp but no longer dripping. He sets it against the oozing sore and with gentle pressure, scrubs the remnants of the scab away. His empty hand circles Kylo’s wrist, a tether, before he tries to writhe away. The whine that the slow circles of the sponge excites is soft and high, but Kylo is too worn through to swallow it down.

Hux sets the sponge aside and coaxes Kylo to rest on hands and knees. Kylo’s body is weak with exhaustion, and he slides to rest his weight on his arms, pillowing his good check. The pallet that cushions the platform is covered in a finely woven silk, causing his knees to slip as he struggles to find purchase against it. Hux provides support, scooting Kylo to the edge of the platform.

He slipped out of his white jacket and trousers at some point during Kylo’s slumber. While he crouches to tend to Kylo, his erection, tenting the thin fabric of his briefs, is clearly visible. He draws back and allows the edge of one fingernail to ghost over the open sore. Kylo recoils. Hux’s lips barely move with the request. “Open for me Kylo.”

In this final act of contrition, Kylo cannot deny Hux. The typical ache in his jaw is nothing compared to the deep pain of his ruined cheek. He slackens his mouth, does the best he can to cover his teeth with lips, but all his will is spent, and he can’t force himself to suck or lick. Tears flow freely now, to sting the exposed pit.

Hux holds each side of Kylo’s face in his moist palms. He cups the tear streaked cheeks and draws his fingers through the slickness as he slides his swollen cock inside. With Hux pressing at the back of his throat, Kylo’s mind is at its most vulnerable. The physical and emotional nearness blurs the barrier between Hux’s thoughts and his own. Drawn into Hux’s mind, Kylo can see himself standing behind the emperor, before a room of officers—silent, menacing, proud. Denied his mask, the raised flesh on his cheek vivid red.

**Author's Note:**

> Haunt me on [Tumblr](http://sinnotalone.tumblr.com/).


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